


Soviet (Arranged) Union

by TooDumbToDie



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: 1700s Russia, Arranged Marriage, Heated gamer moments, M/M, Pining but I don't know if its mutual. It probably is, Sappy Ending, Was originally just copium, What period dramas and documetaries does to a mf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooDumbToDie/pseuds/TooDumbToDie
Summary: What the title and tags say it is.It's the 1700s, due to political reasons, Nazi is now stuck in Russia which he's not happy with and Tankie is doing his best to handle this new chaos (Nazi).
Relationships: Communist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), authunity
Comments: 55
Kudos: 78





	1. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU started off as private copium for me but then my friends begged me to finish it. Which is why some elements don't make sense concerning worldbulding. Like Marxist Leninism sure as shit didn't exist in the 1700s and neither did Fascism for example. But don't worry, this won't turn into a hetalia knock-off since I've never watched Hetalia.
> 
> Also sorry, can't do good titles or descriptions.

He carefully steps out of the carriage. And the first thing I notice is that he’s cold. He’s shivering slightly but his eyes also bore icy holes into me and his mouth is set in a pained line. If he could, he’d lead me to the gallows himself.

And so this was the German prince I had been told about. I don’t remember where in Germany. All that mattered is that it was for some nebulous political reasons. It was the quickest and easiest way to secure a decent and lasting alliance. They just needed to marry him to some member of the Russian royalty and I was the only option they had left, my siblings all married or had other strategic marriages planned out.

I walk over the cobbles to him. He just stands there, still shivering and dead silent. I just hold out my hand.

“Velcome to Russia comrade” and I awkwardly laugh. Anything to lighten the oppressive mood that turned up with him. His own little cloud following him.

He doesn’t accept my hand.  
“I don’t want to be here,” he says, his Russian garbage.

“Vell you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Exactly” he hisses and walks past me.

Two hours later, I’m leading him through corridors and halls in the imperial palace. He walks slightly behind me, trying to take everything in but he’s still got that frown. Like his face is permanently glued to be like that. Always miserable and bitter. I show him the gardens, his rooms and anything else of importance we stumble across on the way. And the last of all, the imperial library. I had been told he’d like it. I had literally planned it out before he arrived but turns out it didn’t even matter since he’s just smouldering behind me as per usual.

I lead him through its large doors and up a flight of dark wooden stairs into the library. Everything is ornately decorated, carved hardwood and leather-bound books neatly stacked into shelves that nearly kiss the ceiling.

I stop and turn to face him.

“Vell here’s the library. I thought you might like it.”

But he just stands there, his arms crossed.  
“No.” and he doesn’t add on anything. He doesn’t even say why he hates it or what's bad about it, utterly void of any feedback.

“Uh, ve have some old religious codecs you can look at. You might find those interesting” I say, trying to be helpful. But predictably it does nothing.

“No. I think I’m fine." he says, his face dead.

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks out.

  
  


And that night for dinner, we hold a small feast in his honour. It’s a small private affair with just the family and a few important dignitaries. He’s seated right next to me but doesn’t say a single word to me unprompted and when he does, its nothing more than a single word or two. He just carefully eats his food, paying no heed to me or anyone else for a fact. My sister tries. I try.

And then my mother, clearly embarrassed by all of this, tries.  
“So, James, how have you been enjoying it here instead of in Holstein.”

“I haven’t been,” he says curtly in his accented Russian.

“I assume it’s because of the cold? I heard Holstein barely snows.”

“You are right,” he says through his frown.

“Has Joseph shown you around?”

“Yes.”

“And did you like it?”

“No,” he says but quickly covers it up as if he were simply acknowledging her question instead of being honest. 

“It’s very nice here. Far less barbaric then I thought it would be,” he says with his newfound horrible silvery voice. It’s like he’s speaking in italics, the words themselves have a backhanded punch but he just looks like an innocent lamb. It’s all honey-sweet lies.

And the wedding, when it comes, is terrible. What could have been romantic is just him gripping onto my wrist, hard enough to leave bruises and him making snarky remarks about the orthodox church, the jews, and Luther. But then I don’t blame him.

And that iron grip doesn’t leave apart from when we have to hold candles while our rings are blessed. And it doesn’t leave when we share a cup of sweetened wine. It’s meant to symbolise ‘shared common life’ together but it’s all a farce. He hates it here and he probably hates me too. And I don’t want to think about that too much.

And then it becomes an iron grip on my hand, his palms clammy and his short nails digging into my hand while the priest wraps his stole around our hands, completely oblivious to everything. And then, with the priest in front of us, we walk around the lectern with the open gospel on it three times. Nearly a fourth since James doesn’t stop but I pull him back in time.

Once we work our way through all the rituals, hymns and prayers, all the way from the back door to the altar, before Christ. And we finish the drawn out and unnecessary last ceremony, I twist my hand out of his grasp and go in for a kiss. He just expertly dodges it, disgust and physical pain ripples across his face.

“Don’t fucking kiss me you faggot.” He hisses under his breath. 

And together we walk out of the church, not hand in hand or happy at all. He soon disappears into his rooms, leaving me standing outside the church doors in the miserable cold.

When I get inside, I pour myself something and try to distract myself from the disaster with anything. But it doesn’t work. And it doesn’t take long till I’m just sitting there, a book in my lap, replaying every scene and every little thing that happened. I’m not even paying attention to the words anymore. 

And the worst thing isn’t that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life with this temperamental asshole but that he dodged the kiss. And that just swirls around in my mind. And it’s not the rejection either that hurts. But a disappointment I can’t place my finger on. And brief thoughts about what kissing him would feel like flash through my mind. Would it be any different from kissing the court ladies? Would it feel prickly? How would his mouth taste? But they come as quickly as they go.

But I changed my mind. I’m not drinking alone. Later that night, I make my way to his rooms with a bottle of wine. I don’t fully know why. It’s just something I’d like to share with him. We got married after all. Why not have a drink. I just want to talk to him, just in hope that this time he won’t be cold and nasty. And I know that rationally, it’s not who he is deep down but just a reaction to everything going on.

I knock on his door. No reply. Just silence. So I knock again. Still nothing. And something stupid in my brain makes my hand tighten around the door handle. And I slowly press it down, the door opening. And I walk in. My heavy footfalls sending slightly reverberations in the wood-panelled antechamber.

And there he sits on the sofa, his face faced towards me and his head in his hands. He doesn’t lookup. Not even when I begin to walk to him and not when I sit down next to him on the sofa.

I get a decent look at his cheeks, they’re glistening slightly in the light. And he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, his head in his hands. Frozen to his spot like a statue.

“Uh, comrade I brought some vine.”

“Get out if you don’t have anything important to say,” he says, not even angry, just tired.

“Uh vell I don’t have anything important to say but maybe some vine would help vith the mood?”

“Then get the fuck out. I don’t want to be reminded I’m stuck in this barbarian shithole for the rest of my life.”

“Comrade, I assure you, Russia is just fine.”

“No, it’s really fucking not.” and I watch his body shudder. It makes me feel some sort of impending doom. And it’s not long before he’s wiping away more tears.

And something in my brain activates and I just wrap my arms around him but still keeping him at a bit of a distance. He bawls into my shoulder while I just awkwardly hold him.

“I fucking hate it here. I fucking hate you. I hate Russia” and he just cries.

I don’t even know what to do anymore. I can’t comfort him. I’m too confused to say anything. I just pat his back carefully.

“Uh. Everything is going to be alright comrade.”

“No. It’s really not.” and he keeps sobbing.

“Alright.” and I try to give him a forced smile which he doesn’t see anyway.

And when he finally stops crying and shuddering, I pull him closer. I just hold him in silence, both of us frozen still. And I have to admit, he’s nice to hold. It’s just like he fits there perfectly.

He never mentions it again. And the next few weeks pass rather normally apart from the fact that I have to adjust to the fact that there’s a new person in my life. But it’s weird since it's a slightly confusing combination of him sticking to his rooms and lashing out at people who try to disturb him. But also him clinging to me, not literally but emotionally. He doesn’t have many people with him from the German courts. So I’m both his lifeline and the thing he hates the most. So he just reads. Devouring one book after another until his problems go away.

And ironically, they’re all from the imperial library. And he even ends up looking at the religious codecs with me. Together we sit in a small private reading room. I don’t even read, I just watch him read and turn the large pages with his boney fingers. And he can’t read all the text either, old Russian which is too complex for him. But it's interesting to see him completely disconnect from the world and get sucked into this text, written centuries before he was even born. And it’s a nice change from him ignoring me. And carefully, I move my hand onto his thigh. It sits there and he does nothing, he just keeps turning the pages. 

A few hours later, we leave the library, a small hint of a smile on his face as we walk through the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goose, if you're reading this, I will hold you to your promise that you have to write mucho textos singing my praise. Start typing.
> 
> If you're not Goose, a positive comment or feedback would still be greatly appreciated.


	2. The ice skating incident

But after that. It gets worse. Not in the sense that he’s angrier but that he surfaces less and less. He talks with others less and less. And with his anger, he’s almost mellowed out. Mellowed out to a pained acceptance of his reality. Almost like at the start, he thought that maybe, his parents would change their mind and pull him out. He even sent letters to his parents, writing home begging them for permission if he could annul it. But the ‘rescue’ never came.

And it’s starting to get concerning. Concerning to the point where I actually end up missing having him trailing me like a ghost, a very snarky pissed off ghost. And no one’s looking out for him I think at this point. After all, he’s alone in the foreign court. Though he did make friends with a few people like a German ambassador from god knows where, but the ambassador has his own life, and his own family he needs to take care of and can’t fuss over some German prince.

And I tell my mother about it, and she just offhandedly tells me I have to go do things with him. She never specifies what things. Just completely unconcerned about him and what’s going on. But I understand that. Her life is busy.

It took me a lot of persuasion and nagging in order to get him to go ice skating with me. The river Neva had frozen over overnight and I wanted him to go with me. Not just because of worry but just because I wanted him there. I want to do things with him. And that morning we walk up and head out towards the river. We walk through the twisting streets with our skates in hand. And it’s honestly beautiful, everything coated in a fine dusting of snow, while we freeze our asses off.

And it’s even more beautiful when we make it to the banks of the river. Its wide twisting body is frozen solid and it’s banks lined with the occasional pedestrian and impressive buildings. But we’re not the only ones who had the same idea, already on the ice; there are a few children, regular folk, and one particularly old man having the time of his life.

I sit down and start to put on my skates. But he just stands there. I watch him squint and look out at the river, the light reflecting off it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. What if I break through the ice? What if I drown?” He says cautiously with faux-concern. His silvery innocent-eyes italics voice is back. And it’s immediately clear to me it’s not because he’s scared of the ice or his safety but because he wants to go back to his rooms.

“I vill pull you out or something,” I say, adjusting the straps on my feet.

“I would rather drown than have your paws all over me.”

“Comrade, ve vill be fine. Do not vorry. I’ve gone skating so many times.”

He just rolls his eyes and sits down, strapping on his own pair which we had to borrow from someone.

And then, together we step onto the ice. At first, he just walks on it, like how you’d walk with skates on dry land. I watch him physically lift one foot up and then place it down. It’s like watching a foal or lamb, just birthed walk. It’s legs unsure and wobbling, trying to get used to this new life.

“Come on comrade.” and I skate to him, holding my hand out. “Stop being a pussy.”

And he takes it, a bitter pained expression forming again on his face, but he doesn’t say anything.

We spend the next half an hour skating, his movements unsure while mine fluid. His whole body is tense with his hands gripping onto mine, but at least we both have gloves on this time so it doesn’t hurt. But the longer we skate, the more fluid his movements become, and the more pink his face goes from the cold. It’s a soft smattering of pink on his cheeks and nose. And it’s rather endearing and I can’t help but give him a small smile. Endearing that this man, who calls me slurs and tried to dodge my kiss is quazi-blushing and holding my hand.

I look over at him one more time. “James you are pink in the face.”

“Okay.” he says deadpan, his eyes on his weaving feet and those passing us.

“It looks good on you.”

“Shut the fuck up faggot.” he hisses but the pink just gets a bit stronger.

And in that moment, I decide to free my hand from his grasp and attempt to wrap it around his waist. But the moment it touches his back, he squirms, as if we were two positive ends of a magnet and then grabs my arm. And before I realise what’s happened, my face and whole-body impact with the ice.

But this unknowingly sets him on his own course, and I just watch it play out, like a crash happening in real-time. And I can’t do anything to stop it, it all is happening far too fast. The momentum he gained from pushing me and his inability to ice skate properly combine, and he keeps going. Faster. And faster. Unable to stop. Until he himself also falls square onto the ice, a few metres away from me.

I watch him sit up, and so do I. I hear him hurl another slur in my direction which I don’t fully catch while I quickly dab at my nose. My gloves come away red.

“Vhat the fuck was that!” I yell so he can hear me properly. But also, just because I’m genuinely baffled. No idea what the fuck just happened.

“Don’t fucking touch me you pansy” he yells. And then he slowly pulls himself up and stomps across the ice.

\---

It’s a herculean task but somehow, we’re sitting on a picnic mat indoors. Specifically, in what is his living room, far too cold to sit anywhere else comfortably so we had to make do. And it took even more persuading than the ice skating.

There’s a roaring fire in the corner and what was a hot drink, the cup now empty. We originally wanted to sit outside so he could paint something but instead, his paints and charcoals are discarded and he’s laying on his floor.

And he just lays there while I finish some of the sandwiches which we had brought along but he didn’t want to touch. And I don’t know how he did it, laying on the floor and all but the next time I check in with him, he’s asleep. His head rests on his arms and he’s breathing softly. It’s very peaceful. And the near-permanent grimace has softened, along with all the lines his face. He just looks peaceful and content.

And on a whim, I don’t know why I do it and it’s probably a bad idea, I reach out and bury my fingers in his hair. It’s soft and I thread my fingers through it. I know it’s a bad idea. A really bad idea but I don’t retract my hand. And he doesn’t seem to notice or react. So I just slowly and carefully start untangling his hair. There aren’t actually many tangles but it still feels nice just to run my fingers through it.

After a while, he stirs in his sleep. His shoulders jerk a bit and he mutters something incomprehensible. It could be in german for all I know. But still, I keep playing with his hair. It’s almost like playing with a tiger or another wild animal which they keep in the menageries which have just started popping up. Majestic, beautiful but also dangerous. Like the impact with the ice. And if I were brave enough, I'd press a kiss into his hair. But also like all of those wild animals, he’s trapped.

And then I hear him stir again, interrupting my train of thought.

“Joseph?” he mumbles, more asleep than awake.

“What are you doing?”

“I am playing vith your hair.” I say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which it is.

“Okay. Alright.” He says, before turning over slightly and going back to sleep.

But eventually, he wakes up again, pulling himself upright and stretching. And then the obligatory complaining about the creaks in his bones and the pain from sleeping on a hard wooden floor. And after a while, I leave. He doesn’t say anything about me playing with his hair as if he hadn’t noticed.

\---

I found out a week later I was wrong. Intense knocking rouses me from my sleep and when I go to open the door, there he stands before me in his undershirt and underwear. 

“Uh hi. Vhat the fuck is going on.”

He doesn’t answer but instead, he pushes himself past me and makes a beeline for my sofa, which he prompts sits down on. He looks up at me, his face red and blotchy. I slowly watch him wring his hands, and then only does he open his mouth to start speaking. 

“Joseph d-do you know? Fuck it. Never mind.” He says, before standing up and making his way to the door again.

He’s almost ghostlike and ethereal in his white undergarments and the dim lighting. Vanishing throughout the day and then only appearing at night to haunt me. I grab his arm before he vanishes again. Before a chance at us getting closer or improving this relationship vanishes.

But luckily, he doesn’t slip out of my grasp. Instead, he turns to face me, looking me dead in the eye.

“I want you to. No. I need you to play with my hair like you did in the solarium?” he asks, starting off cocky but somewhere in the middle his voice cracks. I can’t help but let go of his arm and hold him tight.

I never actually end up playing with his hair. Instead, we both sit on my sofa, my arms wrapped around him as he leans into the crook of my shoulder. He doesn’t cry but I can tell he’s trying his best not to, every time I try to speak at him, he nods or shakes his head as if opening his mouth would open the flood gates too.

I just rub his back, my hand moving in circles as he just sighs and clings onto me. And it’s all weirdly intimate, the only thing separating his body and my soft hand movements is the thin linen of his undergarments. And it just feels so peaceful. It feels so right and correct. But I can’t help but a bit confused, confused about his constantly shifting and conflicting messages. But I just continue to rub his back.

“Okay, Joseph. Think I’m feeling better now. Can you take me back to my rooms?” he mumbles into my shoulder, his words muffled.

“Like escort you or vhat?”

He just sighs, his exhaustion, both mental and physical is clear.

“I don’t want to stand up. I don’t want to walk.”

“Alright comrade.”

And that’s how I end up carrying him back to his rooms. His arms wrap around me and he buries his face in me once again. I’m just glad he’s letting me do this. Maybe it’s because there’s no one awake so no one can see us indulging in this ‘faggotry’ as he’d say. But I don’t care if they do, he’s literally my husband.

And when we make it to his bedroom, I gently let him down. He just stands there instead of crawling into bed and gives me one last hug.

“Thank you Joseph,” he says softly.

He turns around to climb into bed and I start to make my way out.

“Sleep vell comrade.”

He gives me one last soft smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter.
> 
> I accept payment in the form of comments, mucho textos, and/or first born children (rumplestilskin style)
> 
> (On a serious note, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Also I realised that making tankie, the personficiation of marxist leninsm a member of russian nobelity, makes no sense)


	3. Ballet-Operas and other things

And after that, he spends time fluctuating. Sometimes he’s miserable and distant and the others, he’s back to his normal snarky self. But I find him curled up on his sofa reading a book on human skulls, naturalism is all the rage after all. No longer are people just collecting artworks but also private specimens but mostly just small botanical ones and engravings.

I place my hand on the armrest and lean over him a bit. He looks up from his book.

“What is it now?” he sighs.

“Comrade, ve are going to an opera-ballet tomorrow.”

He looks back down at his book and flicks the page over.

“Good for you. Now get out.”

“Comrade, you have been invited specifically. By my mother. You can’t refuse.”

He knows I’m right and he just grimaces.

And a little less than 24 hours later, we’re seated in a box in the balcony of the theatre with my family. He sits next to me, his hand gripping my wrist and is bitching about how he didn’t know it was going to be in French. I look at him speaking; his lips, his freckles and his very animated hands as he rambles about his hatred for the French but every single word he says goes in one ear and out the other. 

And it’s a beautiful theatre, a large chandelier hanging from the gold-gilded ceilings and the walls lined with red velvet wall hangings. But it’s also very chaotic and noisy. There’s the orchestra in the put trying to tune their instruments but also everyone is trying to be seen and see others, walking around and chitchatting. A few people come and go out of our private box like my sister drifting off to join a card game in another box.

And occasionally I do chat with some of the dignitaries who do visit our box. Just a short conversation but when I turn back to James, he’s still sitting there with his back straight, his hand gripping onto my wrist as he watches the opera. He’s very silent and tense and admittedly he does look good like this. Handsome and very steely. But there’s nothing I can do. I can’t kiss him or touch him, so I just revert my eyes back to the dancers and singers on stage.

“Come comrade, vhy don’t ve go look around,” I ask him when the third act starts.

“What about the ballet.” he hisses quietly.

“Ve can still watch from it from another spot.”

He just sighs and rolls his eyes but together we drift around and quickly locate a group of nobles. They’re dressed very opulently, one of the ladies with a fan in hand and another one in an expensive blue gown and most importantly, with a chessboard sitting on a table. And quickly James is roped into it and seated by the lady with the blue gown, and I notice it has a very low neckline. But James pays no attention to her breasts, instead just awkwardly sits there like a fish out of water. And quickly bets get placed.

He turns around in his seat, giving me a pained look and then hisses something in German which I only get the gist of.

“Ich kann kein schah spielen. Wette nicht viel gelt.”

_I can’t play. Don’t bet much._

I do bet and more than he wanted me to bet. I have faith in him. So I put down some rubles, my hands then resting on his shoulders. He doesn’t shake them off so I take it as a sign of approval.

And then they start to play. He was right. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing but at least it’ll make the match quick. I just feel sorry for him. Not because he’s getting his ass handed to him but because he’s squirming and uncomfortable. I just give him a squeeze on his shoulder to reassure him and then watch him play. Plus, he’s by no means dumb, he’s clever and he doesn’t need anyone telling him that.

And for a brief second, my hand leaves his shoulder. I quickly brush a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. And I realise that he’s almost leaning into my other hand which still remains on his shoulders. I’m just glad he’s not getting mad at me.

And when he’s done and I’ve lost my money, we hurry back to our box to continue watching the opera-ballet, his hand gripping my wrist even harder.

By the time we get home, he’s completely worn out and tired. I can see it in the way he walks and the weariness in his face. And it’s probably because he’s never been to a theatre this large and busy. A small German state is pretty different from imperial Russia. And when we walk through the palatial gardens, it just feels different. He’s still tense and all proper but I just want to grab his hand, twirl him, and then kiss him right then and there.

And in the cold darkness of the gardens, he abruptly stops and then turns to face me. A kiss? But then in the dim light I realise, he’s just grimacing and probably very cranky. My hopes are shattered.

“Joseph. Can you please keep the faggotry to a minimum? I know you can’t help being perverted but at least don’t do it in public.”

“Vhat does that mean.” and yet again, I’m genuinely baffled.

“I’ve seen how you look at me.” he hisses.

“Ah, I understand comrade. Vell is at least alright in private? Just vant to make sure. I don’t vant to make you uncomfortable.”

He moves a bit closer to me. Far too close as if he’s going in for a kiss, his nose only centimetres from mine. But he’s cringing.

“Yes. You can.”

And then he turns on his heels and vanishing towards his rooms. And he stays ‘vanished’ for the next few days until I go looking for him again out of concern.

I predictably find them in his chambers, laying in his bed, nestled into the sheets of his bed. He has massive bags under his eyes and his dishevelled hair is spread all over his pillow. And instead of saying anything when I open his door, he just turns around, his face pressing into the pillow so he can’t see me. Like he’s trying to hide from me.

I sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Comrade, I just vanted to check up on you.”

“Get out.” he hisses to the best of his ability, his speech muffled with his face still pressed into his sheets.

I ignore it and just ask again.

“Are you alright?”

I expect a snarky remark about he’s not alright and how he hates it here, but he doesn’t say anything. And I don’t know what to say further. He doesn’t even say a slur. I just don’t know what to do. So, I just take my shoes off and shuffle further onto his bed. He still doesn’t say anything, just groaning as I get closer to him.

He’s silent, even when I lift the covers up and join him in his bed. It’s warm from his body heat, cosy, and alien. It feels like a stranger’s bed even though I know him.

“Comrade is it alright if I touch you?”

“Yeah.” He says, his voice thin and reedy, it’s more sighing than actual speaking. “Thank you.”

And so I shuffle closer to him and he doesn’t move, as if he’s frozen there. I eventually wrap an arm around him and when he doesn’t react, I pull him closer until my chest is touching his back. I just let my hand rest on his chest, feeling every single one of his lethargic breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

We just lay there. He does shift a bit so he can get more uncomfortable, the mattress moving as his body does. But he doesn’t break free from my arms. He never leaves my side. And at some point, I swear our breathing starts to sync up, mine becoming slow and sleepy to match his. I bury my face deeper in his hair, resisting the urge to give him a small kiss. I don’t want to push it too far and ruin this moment.

But after a while, the familiar need to pee arrives. And after a while, it gets so oppressive that I’m no longer thinking about him. James. But instead, the discomfort from not peeing.

I untangle myself and he doesn’t react, he just continues to lay there.

“Uh comrade, I have to go pee. I vill be back soon.”

He doesn’t say anything in reply.

And when I return, I realise he’s fallen asleep and that he’s probably been sleeping for a while. I quickly check the time and instead of returning to my rooms, I crawl back into bed with him. And this time, I give him a soft little kiss on his cheek. And soon, I fall asleep with ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my brain is absolutely decimated but the german translation of the text is "I can't play chess. Don't bet much money". I'm borderline incoherent atm and have been for it a bit but I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> You know the drill: comments, mucho texots and human sacrifices are genuinely appreciated. I hope this chapter wasn't a miss


	4. Kreml de la crème

At least there was something to break us out of the monotony of rot and decay that we had settled into, or at least that he had settled into. A trip to the kremlin. It hadn’t been used for anything apart from coronations or ceremonies for the last hundred years and that's why we’re going. Of course, not for a coronation but that doesn’t make it any less interesting.

And on the day the news is broken to him, I find him in his rooms. He just sits at his desk, frantically scribbling onto a sheet of parchment. His hands are clenching the quill so hard that his knuckles have gone white and the pressure he’s putting on the metal nib is making a screeching noise. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge me or great me.

“Comrade, are you alright there?” I ask cautiously.

“Do you fucking think I am? And before you’re going to fucking ask, I’m writing a letter to my parents since at least mail travels faster from here than from the Moscow shithole.”

I just sigh and rub my face. I know exactly what this is about. Another letter to his parents about how much he hates it here. I once got to read one of them and it was a borderline incoherent ramble about how much he hated the food, the religion, being married to a man, the language, the ‘subhuman’ Russians, the whole of Russian in its entirety, the cold, and when the thawed slushy snow seeps through his boots. But he didn’t mention hating me at least.

I think though the more concerning thing is that it’s not the first time I’ve run into him writing these letters and every time I find him, he’s alternating between visibly upset or a cold simmering rage.

“What?” he asks, responding to my sigh.

And I just sigh again. “I don’t know vhat to do vith you.”

“What do you mean?” he says, finally putting the quill down and turning to look at me.

“Vell you clearly hate it and-

“Yeah, I fucking do.”

“James. Please let me finish.” I plead and then continue. “You’re miserable, you hate it here, you hate Russia. But on the other hand, you have no choice. Ve have no choice. But I also enjoy having you around comrade.”

“Oh, that’s great for you. Just see how far enjoyment gets you, you faggot.” He says with a deadly cold voice. “Can’t wait to be dragged through the streets like False Dmitry the First for being a dirty fucking queer, can’t you?”

I just stand there. I don’t even know what to say. Maybe if it were someone else, I’d be mad. But it just hurts. Like someone grabbed my insides and twisted them around. It’s agonising.

And he just looks at me and in real time I watch him realise he went too far. But I don’t stick around long enough for his eventual remorse and regret.

And for maybe 20 minutes I just wander the halls. I don’t care where I walk. And it’s less of a wander but more of a mindless zombie state, just replaying over the things he said. Over and over again in my mind. I don’t even know anymore.

Later that night, just before I’m about to go to bed, he slinks into my rooms with his proverbial tail between his legs. And the familiar red blotchiness on his face along with a very remorseful expression.

And he just stands there in front of me with a bottle of wine.

“Vhat do you vant comrade?”

I watch his face contort into his familiar mask of faux-remorse, his eyes wide and innocent. But it drops quickly. Plus it’s not fooling anyone with the redness of his face and the intensity of his fidgeting fingers tapping on the glass.

“I uh-“ and I watch his face contort again. I just let him speak, my arms crossed and slightly unimpressed.

“You you are good and I’m sorry.” and now remorse flashes across his face.

“And I’m very sorry for the Dmitry thing. I hate you but I don’t, and I like spending time with you.” I watch him run his spare hand through his hair, his bony fingers gliding through it without effort.

He wanders up to me and looks me dead in the eye. They’re beautiful but slightly red.

“Please I brought this wine. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Something in my heart leaps a little. And I don’t know how my besotted brain does it but now I just want to hold him. And perhaps kiss him. 

“Vell do you have a bottle opener comrade.”

“Uh no.” and he neurotically scans my rooms looking for anything that could open it. Maybe if it were a beer, he could have opened it with the stone of the mantle place. He nervously places the bottle down on the nearest surface and rushes off to get a bottle open.

And together we crack it open, taking turns to take sips from the bottle. It passes from hand to hand in comfortable silence. And soon we finish it off and I can feel the alcohol taking its effects. It’s even worse for him since he’s a lightweight. But we don’t stop there, quickly finding more to drink. And this time it’s hard liquor.

But at least we have a pleasant rest of the evening, in our infinite wisdom deciding to go outside for fresh air, into the biting cold and dark. And this time I actually get to twirl him. I take my hand in mine, he giggles and stumbles a bit and then I twirl him. That sets him off into a laughing fit, hunched over with his hands on his knees. And it’s genuinely a glorious sound like he’s happy for the first time in a long time. He just looks up at me, genuine joy and glee on his face. 

“Do that again,” he says breathlessly and I do.

And just before we part to bed, he stumbles towards me, his arms open and he just wraps them around me before I can say anything. And he just holds me.

“I want you.” he slurs.

And my heart soars but I can’t really believe it. He’s drunk and it’s far too good to be true.

“Comrade, do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I do you stupid Russian. I want you so much and I want you to want me and I don’t know my brain is scrambled. Touch my hair and hold me. I don’t know. Probably more. But now I’m going to bed.” he rambles on and when he’s done, he pats my back and releases me. And with that, we make our way back to our separate beds.

I yell out one last “good night” and he just waves and grins back at me like a madman.

\---

Two weeks later, we’re stuck in a carriage by ourselves on the way to Kremlin, all the way from the North Sea to the heart of Russia. I spend most of the trip just watching the landscapes go by and thinking while he’s out cold for most of it, his head resting on my shoulder and pressed up against me for a sliver of warmth. And the best thing is when I turn my head and end up with my face submerged in his hair. It smells very nice.

A tedious journey later, we pass over the wide moat, separating the citadel from the nearby merchant city, and then through the massive gates. It’s a beautiful fortress with its brown walls and the buildings, pained white with green roofs. Red, white, green. It’d almost be festive, with the thin layer of slushie snow on the stone cobbles.

I nudge him gently and whisper a “James. Vake up.” into his ear.

He lets out some sort of grunting noise, still not waking.

“Comrade, please vake up. Ve are here.” and I shake him gently.

“Huh?” and his eyes flicker open and he looks directly into mine. And for a second we just look into each other’s eyes, my hand resting on his shoulder where I had left it after shaking him. He gives me a slow bleary blink and I feel something stir inside of me.

“Ve are in the Kreml.”

“Oh.” and his face suddenly goes dark. And I feel a twinge of pain as all the glowing lights in his eyes are extinguished.

Together we climb out, him holding onto my forearm. And together we just stand on the cobbles, admiring the buildings, the golden onion domes and spires of the three cathedrals, and the opulent new residence which had been built under Catherine the Great.

He just looks very underwhelmed by it all and cold, even though he’s trussed up in furs which I had to nag him to wear.

_“I’m not fucking weak. I can handle the cold.”_

Turns out he could not since he starts sniffling next to me, but I don’t point it out or rub it in.

He coughs, clearing his throat. I turn my head to give him my full attention.

“I hate it here.”

“Comrade. It’s fine. It’s a very nice place.”

“Alright. Sure.” he says sceptically.

“Also, I vas told that they gave us shared rooms.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you if that what you’re trying to say you pervert.”

“Ve have literally shared a bed before comrade and vhat vas all that krap about vanting me huh?” I jab at him playfully.

He doesn’t respond, just looking straight ahead and not reacting. Apart from the small pink tinge on his ears and cheeks.

“Well, I’d rather sleep on the floor or the sofa.”

We find our rooms and they’re ornate, to say the least. Painted and gilded almost to the point of claustrophobia. Him, still holding onto my arm looks at them with disdain.

“I’m going insane.” He mutters and he really looks like he is.

Life is made a bit easier since we have a bedroom each, joined by what is essentially a common room and it’s rather cosy with a fire crackling in the corner. I watch him walk up to the window and place his hands on the windowsill. He pears through it, looking down onto the cobbles. We’re on the third storey.

“Joseph, I could through you out of this window and then I’d be able to go back to Holstein.”

I just chuckle even though what he said sounds really grim. All bark and no bite. Or at least no bite anymore.

“You vould end up as a depressed mourning vidower.”

“Yeah, but at least, I’ll be morning in Holstein where there’s less snow and we have the sea.” He turns around to face me. “Or you could come to me with Holstein and we can have a little cottage by the sea and eat decent food instead of the Russian slop.” He says as wistfully as he can while insulting Russian culture.

He lets me pull him into a hug, one arm around his back and the other on the back of his head. He just sighs again and wraps his own arms around me.

“Yeah. That’d be nice Joseph.” He mutters into my shoulder even though I never said anything. He just sounds weary.

“Да. Comrade, I vish.”

“It’s never going to happen and I’m nothing more than a political pawn. That’s all I am.”

“James, you are my comrade.”

“No, I’m your husband you dumbass Russian.”

“That you are comra-“ and I just manage to catch myself in time. “James.”

He looks up at me with those eyes of his and a soft smile.

“Thank you, Joseph.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peep the chapter name its funny. Also concerning the Dmitry dude: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_history_in_Russia#Russian_Empire
> 
> Leave me a comment or a mucho texto if you do desire and I hope this turned out good. I'm pretty happy with it and stuff which is rare.


	5. Some drunken smooches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me but I'm very tired, I wrote the final draft for this, immediately checked for spelling and grammar and then chucked it on here without proofreading. But I enjoyed writing it so I hope it will be good.

The ceremonies were like all other ceremonies; long, drawn-out and with loads of completely unnecessary pomp. Just hours of it, sitting on the hard wooden benches but at least I’m seated next to him. He sits there with his trademark pained expression and is mindlessly bored, but he hides it well. Too polite to appear to be bored but fine with calling me slurs. But he doesn’t call me anything or say anything when I place my hand on his thigh, just a soft sigh and him placing his own hand on mine.

But with every boring ceremony, comes a party or a celebration even if it’s just at someone’s house with their granddad handing out drinks. There always have to be drinks. It’s a little reward for sitting out the mind-numbingly boring rituals. And this one is in the residences built by Catherine the Great, massive domed ceilings, expensive carpet, and even more expensive paintings.

And that’s when I finally find him in the masses of people. I had been dragged away by my uncle who had started bitching about the Ottoman Empire and refused to let me leave, any attempt at ending the conversation ignored and talked over. And he just stands there with a glass of something, grinning at me. there’s a real light in my eyes like he’s happy to see me.

“Hey Joseph!” and his eyes crinkle.

And I take the opportunity while it’s still there.

“Comr- James, I could go for a dance.” and hold my hand out.

He sticks his own hand in my direction, but they don’t meet. He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s too busy sculling the rest of his drink which he ends up discarding. And then he takes it, his hand in mine.

I pull him into the masses of dancing people, the masses writhing and moving like a creature breathing, in perfect timing.

“Joseph, you’re leading,” he tells me, less of a question and more of an order.

And then he carefully adjusts himself, placing his feet where they’re meant to go and his arms in the right places. Everything painfully prim and proper but I know it’s not going to last long. And then the music swells up again, a new piece just started. First soft with piano and brass instruments echoing each other but slowly increasing in volume and intensity.

He stumbles over my feet a few times, each time cursing how he can’t follow and only lead. He’d never been taught anything else, he’s a man after all. So he’s either looking at his feet so he doesn’t fuck up or into my eyes. And every time he does, something in my chest swells up. Just to have him in my arms, his hand in mine and him looking at me like that is something else.

And so, the music finally picks up until we’re twirling at a feverish speed. I feel nothing but exhilaration and a soft adoration in my chest. And he’s just been reduced to stumbling while I hold him up but neither of us cares. There is nothing but joy on his face, the serious demeanour was long gone and when the music stops, he collapses into me in an onslaught of giggles.

It’s infectious and I can’t help but laugh with him. Together we stand there like an unmovable island in the sea of people, them moving around us while he just laughs and clings onto me.

“God, we have to do that again,” he says, righting himself and getting into position once again.

And we do it again and again with little breaks for food and alcohol, our feet quickly growing sore and our stomachs empty. It doesn’t take long until we’re exhausted, tipsy, and I’m completely besotted. It’s driving me insane. He’s driving me insane. The fact that he’s letting my hand travel further and further down his back is true insanity. The dangerously low placing of my hand and his laughter. The infectious laughter. And the alcohol and the emotional touchy feely-ness that comes with it.

“Fuck it, Joseph. I’m tired. I can’t dance anymore. My legs are sore. We’re going somewhere else.” he verbally vomits out, the messy combination of exhaustion and too much alcohol. “Somewhere private.” he tacks on the end, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to say it twice. I get the message pretty quickly. Together we make our way through the crowds and out of the doors, our roles reversed with him dragging me instead. We end up jogging through the corridors like tipsy dumbasses, him wheezing the whole time. Our feet lead us to our rooms which we clamber in, closing the door behind us.

He grabs my hand, yanking me down with him as he lets him fall out of the sofa. It catches me off guard but I let it happen, squashing him beneath me. I roll off him so he’s stuck in the corner crease and I’m close to falling off.

He just starts to laugh, still wheezing and his chest moving up and down frantically. I don’t really understand what’s so funny but I just watch him and I feel the familiar feeling in my chest. He quickly catches on and realises I’m staring at him, it’s not hard when we’re practically face to face.

He abruptly stops laughing. It’d be concerning if his face went serious but it doesn’t. There’s not a single drop of coldness in his face or eyes, just that mischievous glimmer.

I don’t know what to say so I just say something, anything to break the silence.

“Uh, comrade you are a bit squished. I can mov-“

But his fingers shut me up. Like claws they reach for my face, splaying out on my cheeks and he just holds my face, looking me in the eyes. That’s all we do, he just holds my face, wheezing slightly while I just wait.

Slowly he starts to move his face even closer to mine. So slow its almost torturous and then finally, his lips brush against mine. Like he’s too scared to commit or is just testing the waters. But then he stops hesitating, pressing them against mine and I return it. It’s everything. It’s so soft and tender like he loves me but it’s also cautious and unsure. A cautious unsure love. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s a fish out of water stuck in Russia. And probably relationships too since at least I’ve had a fling with a girl before, but I doubt he has. It’s a perfect summary of our short relationship so far but I like it. I’m just extremely happy, and so is he. It’s an unspoken truth.

And it all accumulates in him sitting on my lap, his legs wrapped around me and his fingers in my hair. They’re desperate kisses for both of us, a necessary release of built-up longing and want. A want we were both too scared to give in but for wildly different reasons. But I revel in it, revel in the fact that I can touch him and kiss him like this and that he lets me do it. Revelling in the fact that I am the luckiest man alive.

We don’t take it any further than this since he doesn’t feel comfortable, but I don’t mind. I just wake up to light filtering in through the windows and nausea from last nights antics. I glance over at James who lays squished next to me, still in the crease of the sofa but he’s breathing softly and fast asleep. I don’t even know what to think so I just lay there in physical discomfort, my mouth parched, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. But at the same time, there’s this bliss. This bliss and emotional calm I haven’t felt in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contemplating ending the fic here but my need to write copium drives me on. Perhaps another chapter or two. My friend also begged me for a "passionate steamy" sex scene which I might deliver on (I've finished writing it) when I figure out how to get the series shit working so I can keep them separate. Also might another chapter or two from this one. We will see. Yell at me if you want. People yelling at me is what I use to justify to do more dumb stuff.
> 
> Also if you so desire, leave me comments and mucho textos. Genuinely thank you so much for reading this. Thank you so fucking much for everything nice yall have said. That shit is my bread and butter. Tho this thank you doesn't mean its over. I'm just very genuinely grateful.


	6. The end

“Comrade I know you have an interest in art. Do you uh vant to go check out the cathedrals?”

“I have an interest in art, and not in idolatry.”

“James you vould enjoy it. At least there is no pressure for you to convert since most foreigners who marry into the family do.”

“Oh, that’s very good because I would never engage in idolatry.” he says in his italics voice. Every word soft but loaded with a musket pellet.

But luckily that’s all it takes to convince him. He’s in good spirits and smiling as we walk through the streets of the kremlin. There is a life and a spring in his step and it makes the corners of my mouth curl up but not in a sneer, instead its a smile of my own. It’s beautiful. There’s not many streets but the buildings are massive, their roofs coated in fresh snow from last night. It’s a combination of factors; our prospering relationship, us both doing well individually and this beautiful citadel.

For a second, our gloved hands brush but soon, I feel his pinkie finger hook around mine. He glances over at me with a smile on his face and I smile back at him, the corners of my mouth travelling even further up.

By the time we make it to the gates of the cathedral, our gloved fingers are interlocked instead of just the pinkies. We just stand there together in the courtyard looking up at the massive maria and child painted above the entranceway.

Inside is even more interesting. We just drift around hand in hand admiring the paintings of saints all around us. They’re on the columns and the walls, stretching all the way to the ceiling. And the ceiling itself is also decorated. And we can’t help but marvel at it, even he does with his hatred for religious art, craning our necks to take everything in. It’s unbelievable and indescribable.

“Joseph, maybe this wasn’t so bad.” he says softly, the church completely quiet apart from a few others.

“Vhat did I say.”

“Stop being cheeky, you Slavic brute.”

I just laugh, disturbing the peace and quiet. My laughter rings out, echoing. At first, he’s a bit disgruntled at the fact that I’m making a scene but then he grabs me by the lapels, drags me behind a column and plasters a massive kiss on my lips. I eagerly kiss him back.

After a second, I realise there’s a woman watching us with a confused and slightly appalled expression on her face.

“Just a fraternal kiss. He’s my friend.” I say before I drag him off.

I drag him into a small side corridor, it’s rather dark with its imposing limestone walls and lack of lighting, but we quickly find an alcove we get comfy in. We just hold each other, him pressed against the wall and exchanging what were initially small tender kisses until they grow more desperate.

Though after a while we release, we need to take this elsewhere. But he’s a beautiful picture, his hair a mess and my knee in between his legs.

\---

The same energy carries on back to st Petersburg, the window to the west. Our trip coming to its eventual end with us in a carriage together, travelling through the countryside. He’s a bit cranky and sore but he lets me shower him with affection, all of it which he eats up gratefully.

We’ve manoeuvred ourselves so that we’re sitting on the length of the carriage seat with our legs hanging off since it’s too short. I’m just crammed into the corner while he’s sitting in front of me, hunched over and shirtless while I dig my fingers into the soft skin of his back. I carefully work out the knots and he just sighs or arches his back when I hit a painful spot.

And when we’re done, he just leans back into me, his eyes have shut and my hands resting on his stomach.

“Joseph?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Hrm?”

“I’m really happy I met you.” and he sighs. “Even though it was degenerate.”

I plant a kiss on his neck.

“Me too James. Even though the arranged part vas a bit-“

“-a bit horrible. I was shipped to some foreign country by my parents and forced into a marriage I couldn’t get out of. But at least I got you out of it. I’m happy about that.” And he goes to rest one of his hands on mine, our fingers soon interlocking.

I just hum. “I agree, comrade. At least ve are happy now. I am glad ve are married.”

“Me too,” he says softly, his voice almost inaudible but I catch everything he says. “I want to share your bed.”

I just hold him tighter.

“Please comrade.”

“Yes yes, you dumb faggot. I just said I will. I’m moving in.”

I just laugh. “Love you too James.”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would like to mention that the last chapter is 500 words and you don't have to read it or anything. It's just some shit from my drafts which never made it into the actual plot and stuff since I didn't want to include it. It's just some hanky panky but not very explicit. It's not pornographic. I still haven't figured out how to do series on ao3. 
> 
> Hi, thank you I really really really enjoyed writing this shit. Thank you so much for reading it and letting me write it. Thank you so much for commenting and whatever. Many writers don't like to admit it but we feed off comments and so on that we get. Like a semibiotic relationship. **Thank you so much.** Thank you so much. 
> 
> Feel free to find me on twitter, medium, substack wherever if you so wish since I also write essays and crap **<https://anarchocopium.carrd.co/>/ **


	7. Optional chapter pog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just some shit in kremlin. Just a warning for content but yeah its nsfw but non-pornographic. I needed to dump it somewhere.

“This is extremely degenerate, immoral and highly illegal.” He says as we sit on his bed, my hands on either side of his shoulders. He’s wearing a lovely robe.

“Then ve just von’t tell them. They von’t know.”

“Oh, they’ll know when it hurts for me to sit.” he adjusts himself before continuing. “Get on with it. I didn’t put all this effort in for us doing nothing” he says, but it’s more of a challenge if anything. And I take it, enveloping him in a kiss.

There is a mischievous curiosity is on his face and in his eyes as we fool around. Little hickies where he can safely hide them, sometimes my dick in his hand sometimes his dick in mine. And at one point, he presses a little kiss on it, his eyelids flickering as he looks up at me intently. And I run my hand through his hair quickly. He just laughs. It’s music to my ears.

And a lot of touching. His hands run over my shoulders, tracing the old scars from a hunting accident, and cupping my ass. And he revels in my caressing touch and my kisses and he returns them all. He’s bony with a bit of pudge around his stomach. He’s beautiful and I adore him.

I’m fully in his embrace as I fuck into him. But ‘fuck’ is too crude to describe, it’s making love and we both know that. His robe slowly slips off his bare shoulders and he grips onto me, one hand in my hair and the other one around my back. Sounds of soft pleasure in my ear.

He finishes first and then so do I, collapsing onto him. Which just spreads the mess, but he doesn’t particularly care, he’s just laying there, content, sweaty, and full of bliss. So, content the lines in his brow and mouth have smoothed out. No more grimacing, just a soft smile.

“Joseph, you’re heavy, get off me,” he whines, but it’s all just teasing and no malice. And I do. He, on autopilot, tries to roll over on his front and submerge his face in his pillow, ready for sleep but I manage to stop him before the cum gets on the sheets.

Later we fall into bed, cleaned up, and very much in love. And I can actually say that with certainty even though he’s never verbalised it. The chaste kiss he presses onto my lips as we lay naked under the sheets and the adoration in his eyes. I’m so happy and besotted I could cry. But instead, we just fall asleep in each other’s arms, under the onion domes of the Kreml.


End file.
